3. Nate
Chapter Three
NATE
My apartment was sparsely decorated. I’d bought it on a whim, adding the property to a list of places that sparked some kind of an idea on my first viewing, only to be abandoned and gather dust. “Increasing in value,” all my financial advisors said.
I didn’t care. My lifestyle wasn’t lavish. I didn’t fly in private jets or spend months globetrotting. If I didn’t earn another dime for the rest of my life, I would still live a comfortable life. And there would be something to leave to Beckett someday.
Those were the thoughts that roamed through my head as I sat on the flat black-and-gray sofa, looking at the pitch-black screen of the TV hanging from the wall across.
Around it, almost indistinguishable from the soulless light gray walls, were the abstract paintings the previous owner had left behind.
Dull hues splattered across the canvas sparked nothing in me except confusion. Perhaps that was the point.
I didn’t dwell on the weird art. This was a place near Northwood and more than enough for sleeping in.
I did little more than that in here. Mixing myself a drink in the evening was the extent to which I used the state-of-the-art kitchen.
Judging by how well maintained it was, I suspected the previous owners weren’t chefs either.
My nights were often restless, if not totally sleepless.
Every sound would wake me up. My dreams were vivid and brimming with anxiety.
My eyelids, heavy throughout the day, would be lighter than feathers in the middle of the night.
Closing my eyes would be an invitation to the thoughts that inevitably alerted my senses.
The memory of being broken never really left my mind.
It lingered and tainted every other thought.
And when I entertained it, trying to face the memory full-on, it only tempted worse things to join it.
Is this what you’ve done with your life, Nathan?
That was my own voice speaking. An empty apartment, a cold bed, and a companionless life. Well fucking done.
I wondered why I thought of this so much lately.
Perhaps the absence of hockey left a vacuum I didn’t know how else to fill.
Then again, one in the string of therapists had recently told me that my career might have just been a distraction.
Without it, I had nothing else to keep me from facing the things that bothered me my entire life.
I lay in my bed, awake and bored out of my mind. It was well after midnight. I had a staff meeting early in the morning, but it wouldn’t be my first meeting after a sleepless night.
More out of boredom than desire, I picked up my phone and swiped through Grindr. I didn’t know why I had the damn thing.
The few times it had resulted in something had been fun at the time, but they only ever left me feeling empty afterward.
They reminded me that a meaningless hookup was the best a guy like me could hope for.
I had spent so long in the closet that the daylight burned my eyes whenever I peeked out of it.
There were quite a few active profiles in the area.
Swiping up, I was immediately exposed to the countless profiles that looked exactly like mine: no name, no photo, and the undesirable age that ended most conversations before they even started.
Those few that moved beyond a polite greeting would end as soon as I shared a picture of myself.
Catfish, they’d say. Try passing as someone less known, asshole, they’d say.
And so it went like a carousel. The world’s sexiest man couldn’t get laid. What a fucking joke.
I must have passed out because when I next blinked, my phone was on my bare chest, and the first hints of light against the dark sky were announcing a new day.
After giving up on sleep, I walked out of my big, barren bedroom, passed through the huge living room, turned on the TV for some background noise, found a sports channel running an old hockey game with new, live commentary, and went into the kitchen to prepare some coffee.
While it brewed, I showered and shaved, wondering why I bothered, and returned to the kitchen with a towel tied around my waist and wet footsteps on the floor behind me.
When the game blended with the silence of the apartment, becoming just a meaningless buzz, my chest grew so tight that I decided I couldn’t spend another minute in here.
The compulsion to run away sprouted from the tiny seed instantly.
I dressed and stuffed my duffel with gym clothes, grabbed my car keys, wallet, phone, and work stuff, and almost ran out of the apartment.
The nearest gym that was open twenty-four seven was at Northwood’s campus, although it was empty through most nights aside from a few insomnia-ridden students from time to time, so I went there to burn off the energy that had once gone into rigorous drills and epic games.
I hurried from the staff’s parking lot to the gym as if someone was chasing me, but the campus was devoid of people. At five in the morning, even the partygoers were sprawling on spare couches in fraternity houses.
The silence at the gym meant nothing to me.
After changing into workout clothes, I plugged in my earphones and kicked things off with a leg-breaking run on the treadmill.
Sweat soon broke out all over my body, my lungs burned, and my vision blurred.
After I spent the excess energy running, I made the rounds on the machines.
The gym was incredibly well equipped for a college facility.
Then again, Northwood was an athlete-printing machine.
Each year, their graduates went on to fill the ranks of all the national leagues.
From hockey to water polo to the good old football and baseball teams, Northwood forged them all.
I pushed my body to the limit this morning, although my limit was nowhere near what it used to be.
The weeks I had spent in recovery had weakened me.
It was the longest time I had gone without exercising since college.
Maybe even longer. I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t been working out.
The vanity that had existed in me in my youth hadn’t waned with years. If anything, it had grown stronger.
After my clothes were drenched with sweat and my muscles burning, I returned to the locker room.
I peeled off the sweaty clothes and rubbed the spot where my collarbone had been broken.
I didn’t feel it exactly. There was nothing to feel.
It had healed well enough that I could play without any major risks.
Plenty of players recovered from similar injuries and continued their careers.
Not me, though. Not me, when the injury was not the thing that had plagued me.
It was the softness that came with age, the slowing down in reflexes by a millisecond that some commentators who had never held a stick in their hands judged to be crucial.
They taunted me loudly to step away, leaving me no choice.
The face that had once adorned the covers was a poster child for overstaying your welcome now.
I tied a towel around my waist after stepping out of the shower.
In the silence of the locker room, I never expected someone might be present until I left a wet trail between the shower and the lockers.
When I rounded the corner, I saw him from behind.
My wet footsteps alerted him a second before I cleared my throat, and Carter Prince turned his head over his shoulder with a little frown that melted away as soon as recognition set in.
“Coach,” he said as a greeting.
“Hey, Carter.” My voice was deep but soft. “What are you doing here so early?”
The kid had a light hoodie on and a pair of knee-length shorts. His gym bag was on the bench on the far side of the locker room, a key to his locker dangling from his hand. “Looks like you were here first,” he said in a voice so light that I imagined he was teasing me somehow.
“I’m not a college student,” I said.
Carter gave a little snort that was softened by the playful look that followed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t need to sleep that much,” I tried explaining.
Carter crossed his arms on his chest and mock pouted. “Are you suggesting all students party every night and need to sleep in when they can?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, allowing a hint of a wolfish grin to reach my face.
Carter’s gaze dropped down my wet torso, and I abruptly realized I was practically naked.
I wondered what the locker room etiquette was between college coaches and players.
We’d both been in locker rooms all our lives — that was twice as long for me as it was for Carter — but never in this capacity.
When Carter lifted his gaze to my eyes again, there wasn’t a trace of awareness that he had just examined my torso in plain sight.
Or, if there was some awareness, there was no shame to point to it.
His expression was still the same light smirk he always wore, his eyes were big and brown and warm, and his dimples were there in hints, if not in reality.
“I’m glad you didn’t stop working out,” he said, acknowledging his actions without the slightest trace of guilt. His tone was compassionate, but compassion from a nineteen-year-old kid was possibly the last thing I wanted. “Some guys would have given up.”
I clenched my teeth and swallowed hard. I had given up. Even now, I wasn’t sure I was working for something. “Old habits,” I said in a much more airy voice than I’d wanted. “When you’re my age, you’ll see how hard it is to unlearn the behaviors that defined your life.”
“Oof,” Carter said as if witnessing someone who’d just stubbed their toe. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re ninety.”
I narrowed my eyes a little and looked at this guy. “I was older on the day you were born than you are now. You’d be smart to listen to me.”